


Harry Potter and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

by louciferish



Series: Fanfiction for Reproductive Rights [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hermione Granger changing the world, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Polyjuice Potion, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Therapy, alternate universe where the wizarding world is smart about this stuff, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 18:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18946042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: “And then,” Harry groused, pausing only briefly to lick beer foam from his upper lip. “Then the man told me it’s group therapy! As if the regular sort weren’t bad enough.”“What I’d like to know,” Harry continued, setting his pint glass back on the rough-hewn wood table. “Is exactly what lackwit thought this was a brilliant idea.”Beside him, Ron, who had been continuously drinking without coming up for air during most of Harry’s rant, visibly winced and choked a bit on his beer.AKA Harry and Draco reconnect in group therapy for post-war PTSD in an alternate universe where the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is better at this stuff than Muggle law enforcement is.





	Harry Potter and the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

**Author's Note:**

  * For [junebug_waltz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junebug_waltz/gifts).



> I haven't written a single word of Harry Potter fic in like 10 years but here we go.
> 
> This story is part of a project I'm doing, filling fic prompts in exchange for donations to non-profits that support reproductive choice. You can find more information on this project [on my Twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish/status/1128663167658340353).

“THERAPY?” Harry’s voice rang in his own ears. He hadn’t yelled so loudly since he was fifteen, that era when every little thing in his life still seemed massively important.

Across the table, the Auror holding Harry’s files winced. Ah. Harry wasn’t helping to prove his sanity by screaming. 

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Auror Graves answered, his voice calm and even. He looked more like a therapist than an Auror himself, with wire-rimmed glasses and his thinning black hair combed in a swirl. He stacked Harry’s folder on the desk, shuffling the papers for the sixth time. “Trauma therapy, to be specific. We’re requiring it of all new Ministry or Auror recruits who were involved in the recent fighting with You-Know-Who after some… incidents.”

Harry pressed down another stab of irritation, restraining himself from pointing out that he, more than anyone, could assure Graves that Voldemort was in fact dead this time. Even four years later, people were superstitious about using the bastard’s name.

“If all the testing and medi-witch exams and such didn’t prove I’m ready, then what good is talking to a stranger about my feelings meant to do?” Harry asked. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, a habit he was trying to break as it mussed his hair and revealed his scar more clearly.

“Several strangers, actually,” Auror Graves muttered.

“Excuse me?”

The man cleared his throat, glancing away. Harry spared a moment to hope Graves wasn’t an example of the ideal Auror candidate. The man couldn’t even bear to look at Harry when he said something stupid.

“Well, budget cuts, you know.” Graves hemmed and hawed and shuffled his papers again. “Not enough money to put all our candidates in individual treatment, what with the recovery effort and all. We’ve had to go to a group model; I’m sure you understand.”

Harry did not understand. The only thing that could have possibly been worse than talking about his problems with a stranger was talking in a room _full_ of strangers. The Quibbler would have a field day. 

Harry hated to point out that he was _not like other people_ , because most people he encountered in the wizarding world were well cognisant of that fact, and he would hate to mention it even more in a situation like this. He was trying to get a job. The last thing he needed was for someone to go yelling that Harry was trying to get special treatment by virtue of being Harry Potter. 

After making a few noises that sounded like agreement, Harry walked out of the office with a bit of scroll crumpled in his pocket, the time and day of his first appointment emblazoned on it. 

-

“And _then_ ,” Harry groused, pausing only briefly to lick beer foam from his upper lip. “Then the man told me it’s _group_ therapy! As if the regular sort weren’t bad enough.”

Across the table, Neville nodded, his brown eyes full of understanding. It was easy to see why he was so popular as a professor. Although Neville had grown and hardened in so many ways since they were children, he retained a deep sympathy for the circumstances of others—or at least a lot of skill at pretending. Harry wasn’t completely sure which it was.

“What I’d like to know,” Harry continued, setting his pint glass back on the rough-hewn wood table. “Is exactly what lackwit thought this was a brilliant idea.”

Beside him, Ron, who had been continuously drinking without coming up for air during most of Harry’s rant, visibly winced and choked a bit on his beer. Harry patted him on the back in the guise of helping and watched Ron’s ears change shades from rose to vermillion.

Once he had his wind back, Ron raised hangdog eyes at Harry and Neville over the rim of his glass. “It’s Hermione,” he admitted. “The therapy thing. It’s one of her reforms.”

Harry had expected as much. It had smelled exactly like a Hermione idea. “What on Earth was she thinking this time?”

Ron hunched his shoulders as his head drooped, hiding in the neck of his jumper like a turtle withdrawing into a shell. It was ridiculous for such a tall man to attempt to shrink himself, but even in his twenties Ron’s brain didn’t seem to have recognized the size of his body, and his struggles with adolescent clumsiness were ongoing.

“It’s my fault, I suppose,” he said. His eyes darted around the room and he lowered his voice, so Harry and Neville had to lean in to hear. “Because of what happened, you know, right after the war.”

A lot of things had happened after the war. One of them was that Harry had skipped town after Ginny broke up with him, traveling across other portions of the wizarding world for a year to “find himself”. That was why he was only just completing early Auror interviews, four years after his whole class graduated Hogwarts by default. Aside from long letters from Hermione and brief letters from Ron, mostly about quidditch, Harry had missed most of that year.

Ron often forgot that Harry wasn’t around at the time, but the exasperated look on Harry’s face was a good reminder. “Oh! Because of, you know…” He hesitated, then forced the next part out quickly. “Because I joined the Aurors and then quit.”

Huh. Harry had known Ron did the testing. He hadn’t realized Ron actually got in, and then—quit?

“Why did you quit?” Neville asked, for which Harry was grateful. Neville’s soft tones made him much easier to talk to, less confrontational despite the fact that the once soft boy was now hiding wiry muscle beneath his robes. 

“Nightmares.” Ron’s expression twisted, as if the word alone couldn’t convey what he meant. “As soon as I got into training—nightmares of the war, every night. Mostly about—” He cut himself off, eyes darting from Harry to Neville as if just remembering who he was talking to. “Well, I’ll spare you the details, but it was bad. Bad enough I changed careers.”

He stopped to take a swig of his ale, then shrugged. “It was the right call for me, but Hermione was livid. Said we shouldn’t be dropping _traumatized children_ right into the thick of magical law enforcement without doing something first, or we’d have a bomb on our hands.” Ron straightened up, looking Harry in the eye as he finished. “I’ve gotta say, mate. I think she may have been right.”

Put that way, well… Harry couldn’t say he enjoyed being called a “traumatized child” much, but he could see Hermione’s logic in it. Still— “It’s not the same for me, though. I’m fine, for one thing,” he said, carefully ignoring the look Ron and Neville exchanged. 

“But I’m also under so much media scrutiny. Do you really think I can air my story to a whole group without anyone leaking my secrets to the press?” He shook his head. “Hell, Graves himself is probably tipping someone off on how to make a galleon off me already.”

“Maybe you could petition for some kind of exception,” Ron suggested. “I know you don’t like asking to be treated differently, but you _are_ still The Boy Who Lived.” He was. It was a title that only got worse with each passing year.

“Why not use Polyjuice?” Neville asked. “And before you say anything, I _know_ you two know how to brew it; don’t play dumb. But there are also legal means to buy it now that we’re not thirteen, if you’d rather not risk being recognized.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Ron said. “I can grab some hairs off someone at the Ministry for you to use. Ministry candidates have to go too, so it won’t raise alarm.”

At that, Neville frowned. “I’m not sure that’s wise—”

“Nonsense.” Ron waved off Neville’s protest. “Nothing to worry about, Harry. I’ll pick someone very boring, almost as boring as Percy.” He shook his head, and then he was off, “Merlin. Did I tell you what he asked me to do last week? As if I’m his personal errand boy...”

With the matter settled, Harry relaxed and sipped his beer as Ron delved into the latest Weasley family drama that Harry thankfully wasn’t involved in.

-

Harry arrived at the appointed time and place feeling unsettled in his skin, perhaps because it wasn’t his skin at all. The man Ron had chosen to steal hair from was called Magnus Rotham. He was a bit taller than Harry, thinner, with a wisp of curly ash-brown hair and deep brown eyes. He also wore spectacles, so at least Harry’s habit of pushing his up wouldn’t look out of place.

Ron had assured Harry that Rotham was without a doubt “dead boring”, and would raise no notice within the group. Harry could only hope that he was right.

The entrance to the therapist’s office was like any other office on the block, but when Harry followed the receptionist back to the main room, he felt a familiar pull in the well of his stomach. When he stepped through the door on the other side, he was standing at the edge of a great hall with high, narrow windows and columns carved with twisting, writhing magical creatures. 

Even after over a decade of doing magic, this stuff still inspired awe deep inside him, in the part of Harry that was still a Muggle child just emerging from a cupboard.

The room was mostly empty, and Harry’s footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he walked to the circle of incongruous metal folding chairs set in the center of the hall. A man with a clipboard nodded as Harry approached, and he scribbled something down with a quill. Harry took an empty seat and tried to be subtle about checking out the other recruits.

He didn’t recognize anyone. Most of them were a few years younger and looked vaguely familiar, like Harry might have once had class with a sibling or cousin. A couple were much older, closer to Arthur Weasley’s age than they were Harry’s. There were eight of them in total— nine, including Harry, and only one seat in the circle remained empty.

Just as Harry noticed it, he heard the _pop_ of a magical entrance closing. 

“Am I late?” The familiar voice set the hairs on Harry’s neck on end, and a long-missed tingle of energy surged from his heart out to his fingers.

The clipboard man glanced down at his papers and smiled placidly. “No, Mr. Malfoy. You’ve arrived precisely on time.”

“Excellent.” Malfoy dropped into the open chair with the same smirk as always. He was clad in voluminous black robes, as if he’d robbed Snape’s old closet, but beneath that he wore a nondescript jumper and a pair of simple grey trousers. He looked… oddly comfortable. 

He was pointy as ever, though, perhaps even worse. His cheekbones stuck out, and his skin was so papery white that at first Harry thought his hair was darker, but no—it only stood out more in contrast. 

Malfoy’s eyes drifted around the circle before coming to rest on Harry, sharp as knives. It took a moment for Harry to remember that wasn’t right. He didn’t look like himself. He was _Magnus_ tonight, and no one could see through Polyjuice.

Realizing Malfoy was probably staring because _Harry_ was, he dropped his gaze to the patterned tile floor and pushed his glasses up his nose. Still he coulf feel the weight of the other man’s eyes on him.

“Okay, group,” the clipboard man began. “Now that everyone’s here, we’ll start with introductions. I’m Dr. Everett; welcome to group. We’ll go around the circle, and I’d like everyone to state their name and a bit of why they’ve come here.”

Harry tuned out the introductions, focusing on the floor. What was Malfoy doing here? He couldn’t be trying to become an Auror with his record—could he? Harry absently wondered if Malfoy’s pale skin carried any trace of the Mark he once wore.

Someone nudged Harry sharply. It was his turn. When he raised his head, Malfoy was still staring, so he met his gaze head on. “Magnus Rotham,” he said. “I’m here because I want a job.” A couple people giggled. Malfoy looked away, examining his fingernails as if it all bored him. It probably did.

When his time came, Malfoy simply said, “Draco Malfoy. I was told to come.”

There was a barb on Harry’s tongue. Something along the lines of, _Still following orders, Malfoy?_ , but Harry bit it back. 

Dr. Everett opened the floor to comments, and one of the older women immediately piped up. Her story was long and rambling, and as it dragged on, Harry’s frustration rose. Around the circle, he could see others shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. 

It was quickly becoming clear through tales of gardens and closed shops that the woman speaking played no role in the war. She had not joined the fight. She had lost no one. Her complaint was about the _inconvenience_ of it all.

“And my nephew,” she declared, her voice getting louder even as Everett attempted to halt her momentum, “had to get schooled at home for an entire additional year because of safety hazards at Hogwarts! Can you imagine? My poor sister—”

“What a pity,” Draco interrupted. His silver eyes were sharp as razors, and though he never raised his voice, his tone cut right through her ranting. “Your poor sister, having to coddle her son an extra year, simply because other children were _murdered_ at his school the year prior.”

The woman’s mouth snapped shut. She stuttered. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t think,” Malfoy countered. “That’s what I believe you meant to say. “Over a hundred people lost their lives in the Battle of Hogwarts. Many people lost friends, family, and yes—children. Some may— Some may even have had losses in both sides of the fight.”

He sneered, and Harry never thought he’d cheer on Malfoy’s haughty accent, but it seemed particularly effective here. “ _You_ had the misfortune of gaining extra time with your family. You took damage to your _back garden_. If you don’t mind, I believe the rest of us would prefer if you’d kindly _shut up_.”

There was a murmur of agreement around the circle. Harry was tempted to cheer. The woman was pink as a Madam Puddifoot’s display, but she’d stopped even attempting to defend herself. 

Dr. Everett stood, raising his hands to quiet the buzz in the room. “Very productive,” he said, “very productive, everyone. Let’s take a little break to stretch our legs before we continue, shall we?” He gestured to the back wall of the hall, where a squat table was set up with pumpkin juice and biscuits. “Feel free to take a refreshment as well. If you need a toilet, you’ll have to come see me for the Portkey.”

The circle dispersed, and with it some of the festering energy that the first story had raised. Harry took a moment to wait, not wanting to be subject to too much small talk. He felt grateful—to _Malfoy_ —for saying something. If he hadn’t, Harry would have, and his reply would have involved a lot more yelling and four-letter words. In the years since the war ended, Harry had received owls and other messages from a few classmates, including some Slytherins, that expressed a mixture of gratitude and regret. Somehow in all the memorials and anniversaries since, Harry hadn’t considered that Malfoy in particular had lost both an aunt on one side of the battle and a cousin on the other. He probably wasn’t alone in that, either.

As the crowd around the refreshments thinned, Harry stood. He tried to approach casually, even knowing that he was Polyjuiced. Malfoy could be tetchy even with friends, so Harry started at the other end of the table, took a couple stale biscuits on a napkin, then worked his way down to the juice. Malfoy leaned against the wall at the edge of the table, staring off down the hall and sipping from his paper cup like it was high tea.

Harry edged closer before speaking. “Hello, M— Draco, was it?” Malfoy didn’t turn his head, but his eyes drifted over to Harry’s face. “I just wanted to say thank you—for saying something to that old bat.” Harry forced a chuckle. “If you didn’t, I might have.”

Throwing back his head, Malfoy swallowed the last of his juice, crumpled the cup in his fist, and dropped it into the bin. He then turned to Harry with a look of pure disdain. The feeling of fingers pressing into his jaw took Harry by surprise as Malfoy held his chin in one hand. His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Look, Magnus,” Malfoy spat. “I’m not sure what you’re on about with this _Draco, was it?_ bullshit, but if you think you have any right to speak to me at all after ending our relationship the way you did, you are _sorely_ mistaken. If this is going to be a problem, I’m more than happy to have you transferred to a different group. Understand?”

Harry was too shocked to protest. He tried to nod, but Malfoy’s grip on his face was too firm. “Yes,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Yes, Malfoy.”

Releasing him, Malfoy then strode back to his chair without another word, leaving Harry rubbing at his jaw and turning over the words in amusement. So much for “dead boring” Magnus Rotham, then, if the man had at some point managed to capture Malfoy’s attention. Trust Ron to not know shit about his own coworkers.

As Harry massaged the spots where Malfoy’s nails had pressed into his flesh, he watched the other man turn, making light conversation with a young woman sitting beside him. One thing was certain—Malfoy now had _Harry’s_ attention, just as he always had.

Someone tapped at Harry’s shoulder, and he turned to find Dr. Everett squinting up at him, clipboard in hand. “Magnus,” he said, “I have a roster for this class, and your name isn’t on it. While I can infer what’s going on here, and I understand your motivation, you’re unlikely to get anything out of therapy if you can’t show your true face to the group.”

He folded the clipboard behind his back and gave Harry and appraising look over the rims of his spectacles. “I’m afraid I can’t sign off on your participation until you come to sessions as yourself, Harry.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Harry responded, his eyes drifting back across the room. The young woman said something, and now Draco was smiling, leaning forward on the edge of his seat as she spoke. He looked more alive—and less afraid—than Harry could ever remember seeing him. “I’ve got every intention of participating as myself next week.”

After all—if Draco Malfoy could show his face and his soul to the world, then Harry could too.


End file.
